Driving through the mountains, Day 303 (Guatemala story)

Wide eyed with mouths hung open our group ogled Guatemala City. To me it was a city from the mad max movies or a sunny Blade runner town. The city was so dirty and run down but full of life and movement. There were enormous beautiful bushes enveloped with vibrant flowers upon hills and in parks amidst the filth and dross. An aroma of oil and gasoline wafted in the air. Rusty cars emitting dirty black clouds were packed like sardines on every road. Together the vehicles rushed along seemingly oblivious to traffic laws. People were standing, working, and walking everywhere the eye could see. Men with large guns at the fenced in banks and car dealerships astonished those of us who noticed them. We jumped from our seats pointing vehemently, “LOOK!” Everyone gawked. I noticed school kids dressed in uniforms walking home amongst the chaos. People wearing traditional Indian clothing and those dressed modernly mingled and adorned every street. A pizza delivery man on a moped sped by my window. Next to a strip of crumbling concrete buildings a small wire cage filled with puppies sat on a creaky wooden table awaiting potential buyers. Tires piled half way up a building that sold car parts and repairs. The city was chaotic. It was messy and unorganized. Things weren’t concealed within their appropriate shops. Merchandise was jumbled up alongside dirty dusty crumbling shops, on old tables, in wooden crates, and spilt out of open doors. Attempting to capture the unfamiliar chaotic movement and systematic oddities we endlessly snapped photos through our glass barrier.

Upon leaving the city the mountains stretched out ahead inviting us to make our way into their hills. Hidden winding roads carved by hand out of the solid massive rock fashioned along steep ravines and rising and falling like the track of a rollercoaster awaited our bus. I saw for the first time volcanoes engulfed in clouds on the horizon. There were banana and avocado trees amidst the corn fields. Men, women and children walked and bicycled alongside the road. In small patches of grass there’d occasionally be a scrawny horse grazing alone, bones protruding out from beneath its skin, and a rope around its drooping neck tied to a rock. Practically every animal we saw was merely skin on bones. There was little life visible in any of them. Their eyes were open, they were standing, but practically all of them, cows, horses, goats, and the dogs were skin on bones; flesh clothed skeletons. I saw people walking cows with ropes round their necks, alongside the traffic speeding down the winding roads. Gaunt little dogs ran free ubiquitously. Men covered in filth from the day’s labor lay in siesta from their treks within the grass wherever they chose to stop. The people I saw traveling on foot in the open air beneath the warm sun looked tired. They were dirty and their clothes were ragged. Accompanied by demonized semi trucks and speedy little cars we rushed by them, I continually marveled at the lethargic pace of the overworked people outside of my window. No one moves that slowly back in the states.

Men and little boys walking hunched over like Neanderthals trudged slowly along the streets with loads upon their backs two and three times their size. The large parcels usually of logs were held together by ropes, set upon half erect man and held in place by a strap that ran across the bearer’s forehead. I wondered at their journeys. Had these men and boys walked all day like this? Taking a second look at a small boy with his man sized load I could imagine the pride he might feel at doing his part in the family, but how he must wish he were off playing somewhere with that heavy pack far from him. When must he have begun carrying his load to be able to bear so much weight at such a young age? I can picture a 1 year old taking his first steps with a rope running across his forehead while a stick dangles from his little back. I wondered at the fear the boy may have had of his father’s wrath if he should fail to be able to carry on to the end. A weathered strap clung tightly to his young forehead embraced by the boys dark black hair, but I wondered beneath all that pressure were there thoughts of school creeping around, struggling to escape the confinement? Did he desire to learn, to walk down a different path? After my brief reflection I looked back at the man walking beside the little boy and I wondered again at their journey. Had the man walked all of his life like this? Had each load left its mark on his back and squeezed out any unreasonable dreams he may have had? Was the little boy at his side merely a flashback to the past? Was he a man or a looking glass into the little boy’s future? There I saw a grim past and a sad future walking side by side.

We made our way through the mountains, up and down, around and around and around. The same sights of slow moving dirty people and scrawny animals, little tiny tiendas selling snacks and soda, and seemingly abandoned buildings replayed themselves over and over as we progressed. Rocks and mountain sides painted white with blue or green lettering displayed political campaigning. I enjoyed how the people here utilized nature to advertise. It was much more appealing to me than a billboard. There were tiny rickety one room homes scattered high and low along the mountain sides. The houses, each smaller than my one stall garage were made of small logs and mud, or they were crafted of mud bricks. Thick black smoke rose from within each building. It was impossible to peek within but I could tell from their size that there probably wasn’t much inside. People hung bits of laundry outside these homes. They had chickens in their yards, sometimes a pig. The shelters spotted the mountains. Some were built at such angles I was certain they’d slide down before my very eyes. I couldn’t grasp the reality of people actually living in these. I could see them. We passed hundreds. But I couldn’t conceive the actuality of living there.